


The Florentine Woman

by Evvienna



Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Character Death, Emotional, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Feelings, Marriage, Oral Sex, Painting, Reincarnation, Rennaissance, Soul Bond, Tender Sex, Tragic Romance, True Love, painter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:44:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2796755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evvienna/pseuds/Evvienna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young woman from Florence meets an infamous Renaissance painter to have her portrait painted by him. Though his reputation precedes him, they soon find out they could have an unbelievable connection…</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Florentine Woman

LOVE IS THE EMBLEM OF ETERNITY; IT CONFOUNDS ALL NOTION OF TIME; EFFACES ALL MEMORY OF A BEGINNING; ALL FEAR OF AN END.

It was nothing unusual to get one´s portrait painted these days. Even by a young painter with his reputation and to call it dubious was certainly the softer of descriptions to be chosen from. Lauded as genius, far ahead of his time and man of vision by the admirers of his bravura brushwork but nonetheless being well known as notorious seducer beyond the boundaries of the city of Florence, certainly made Tomaso Guglielmo a wanted man. His paintings were of the most outstanding beauty, of a lifelike precision and clarity it made people from all over Italy travel here to be painted by the master himself. At the same time, his popularity had assuredly saved him several times from being stabbed somewhere behind a tavern at night by a scorned husband or a furious father whose daughter was deprived of her innocence by him. Of course, a good part of those stories was gossip and rumours, a pastime the Florentine citizens were known to be overfond of and who could blame them? Tomaso was a person of many secrets and a mystical aura, a dashing young man with ice blue eyes and of brilliant wit. Far taller than the average Italian man, he was a remarkable sight; always surrounded by people of wealth or importance when he was out and about and not recognisably bound to any woman, though the beauties of Florence seemed to frequent his atelier close to the Piazza della Signoria almost perpetually.

Francesca remembered all this and paced in front of the entrance to his studio, nervously fiddling on the décolleté of her dress, straightening the skirts for the dozenth time and felt the tightness of her bodice cutting into her hips and hindering her from breathing. Her free spirit didn´t at all conform with the restrictiveness of her clothes and on days like these she cursed the day her father, an affluent squire from the Tuscany, had decided to leave their beautiful, rural estate close the city of Turin and to move to the promising, rich city of Florence. The simplest things were turned into formal endeavours here, a fact that severely narrowed her ability to move, and talk, freely, something she was always able to do and indulged in before she came to this town. Now she was here, about to enter this infamous man´s quarter, getting her portrait done by him, one more of the many inconveniencies a young woman had to endure when she was of an influential family and of marriageable age. The day was hot and sunny and still, she shivered at the thought of the meeting that was about to take place. If her father only hadn´t made this appointment with Signore Guglielmo of all people, she thought, an uneasy feeling frothing in her gut. This man of such questionable morals, however brilliant he was, was not someone she looked forward to encountering. Father had wanted him to paint her and had paid a good amount of coin for it; so she was in no position to ignore his demand. The young woman reminded herself of keeping the conversation friendly but short and to the point; she didn´t want to get into any kind of trouble. She would just walk into the studio like her father had agreed with the painter she would at this hour of this day, discuss the terms with him and then leave, as fast as possible. If he was the Lothario people said he was, a heartbreaker and a ruthless tempter, she was, though she considered herself smart and level-headed, in danger.

“Where´s your dagger, signorina?” A seemingly serious question asked in a frivolous way, was Francesca´s welcome at the atelier. She looked around the spacious room first, but saw no one and nothing but an accumulation of wondrous utensils for painting and, for what she could recognise, sculpting, besides many other kinds of items, among them flasks, boxes, measurement devices and books, books in abundance. “Signore Guglielmo?” she asked hesitantly, “I am Francesca Barbarigio and here to discuss the formalities about my portrait and…”

“Where… is… your… dagger!” the voice asked again, rising in volume and impatience, interrupting her insolently. “What do you… signore, I don´t know what you mean…” Francesca was confused about this strange start of a conversation. This artist wasn´t a seducer, he seemed much more like a lunatic!

“So you really came here, alone, obviously, and without a dagger to defend yourself of the gruesome corrupter, Tomaso Guglielmo, unlike you surely have been advised to?” The voice sounded intimidating and if she wasn´t completely mistaken, it came from somewhere under the roof.

Looking up, Francesca suddenly, and she shrieked with horror, noticed a slender young man hanging upside down from the ceiling in a strange construction of ropes and pulleys, looking down on her with a wicked grin. “Well, if that is the case…” he began with a tone that was of a seductive softness now, flipped over and started to let himself down slowly, “in that case signorina, you are at my very mercy.” While she watched him slide down, he added: “I can assure you though, all of the stories about me are untrue. At least a good third of them.” With a soft thud, his feet landed on the grey stone floor and when he climbed out of his construct and stood before her, both held their breaths.

There was an immediate spark between them that was impossible to put into rational words, an instant connection, a feeling of utter completeness neither of them had felt before. Their looks lingered on each other for a few, intense moments and both tried to remember with all their might when they could have met before, because that was a notion they shared.

“Have we met before, signorina Barbarigio? Your beautiful face seems so very familiar.” Tomaso almost whispered at her, doubting his eyesight.

She was as puzzled as he was and though it was not her typical behaviour, she let her eyes explore his fine facial features and wander all over the young man´s body. Slowly she shook her head and whispered, unsure of her words. “It sure seems like it signore, but I cannot remember. You too seem very acquainted.”

A brief while longer, they observed each other, in a curious way but unable to explain what happened between them, why the atmosphere was so tense all of a sudden. Francesca managed to focus again a little quicker than the painter and addressed him now, stating something factually but not without letting a slight playful tone resonate with it. She wanted to return his earlier, only mildly amusing approach and looked straight at him with a stern mien. “I trust your honour, signore Guglielmo, that you will not harm a defenceless maiden, whose father happens to pay good money for her to be painted by you, and who, that goes without saying naturally, expects nothing but the best care while she´s with you.” Tomaso was short of an answer, for the first time since he couldn´t remember when, and when he could break away from her bright eyes, a smile sparked in his face, and he felt a comforting warmth spread out inside him. “Of course, bella signorina, but you have heard about my reputation, have you not? Aren´t you afraid I will rob you of your innocence?”

A quick smirk was all she let display on her face before she answered. “Signore, I quite frankly don´t care about what people gossip about you, or anyone else for that matter, just do your work and we will part as quickly as we met, both with satisfied needs.”

“I would very much hope so, “Tomaso returned back to his smooth, seductive tone and walked around her slowly to eye her extensively. When he arrived in front of her again, his face turned serious and with arms folded before his chest, he said: “Very well, we will start the day after tomorrow. You will come here twice a week, Mondays and Thursdays. Always wear the same dress, I´d say something simple and blue, and always wear your hair the same way, I´d prefer it braided to one side. No jewellery. And a rose. You will bring a red rose and will hold it in one hand while I paint you.” He paused for a moment and his gaze on her intensified while he stroked his bearded chin, “I have a clear vision of what this painting has to look like. If you obey all these basic rules we will get along just fine.” She chuckled. “Of course I will obey, signore. Like all women must.” She bowed deeply before him but couldn´t refrain from winking at him when she was back up. Before she went through the door to leave him, who was still looking at her with a strange admiration, she turned around and smiled: “And no, signore Guglielmo, I am not afraid of you robbing my innocence. You can´t rob something that has been given away for free and a long time ago.”

 

Francesca tried her very best to hold her muscles from trembling and her skin from sweating. It was another incredibly hot day and the warm air wasn´t exactly cooling her or the painter, who stood in front of the large canvas, his shirt opened to the navel and giving view of his chiselled torso, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand repeatedly. The posture in which she had to sit painfully upright had started to hurt after a few minutes, but Tomaso wouldn´t be argued with. He demanded her to sit in a very specific way, he even told her how to hold the rose she had brought and she remembered when he touched her to place her limbs and to carefully turn her face towards the sunlight, she felt a pleasant shiver run through her. He was so close she could feel his hot breath on her skin and his hands were warm and gentle, his finger longs and delicate, digits that looked like they could create beauty with absolute effortlessness. He worked silently, his jaws clenched and his brows knitted from concentration and only handed her the glass wordlessly when she asked for some water. Hadn´t she pointed out to him that the daylight was starting to fade, he would have just lit some candles and continued painting her. “Forgive me for torturing you, signorina,” he smiled at her, wiping his paint covered hand with a linen cloth when she was about to leave him, and she felt a little sting in her stomach knowing she would only see him again in three days, “I tend to get absorbed in my work sometimes but painting you feels like…” he looked at her with widened eyes and gestured lively, “I found a new, burning inspiration that just doesn´t seem to cease and the more I paint of you, the stronger the flame rises.” Her cheeks flushed at the unusual compliment and not much to her surprise, she felt very tempted to kiss him, but dared not to cross the space that was between them. So she left with a coy smile, with the sweet certainty his words would cause another sleepless night.

“Francesca, Franceschetta, there is someone here to see you!”Signora Barbarigio´s sonorous voice sounded through the whole house. Francesca put her book aside for a moment, wondering. She didn´t expect any visitors this morning, so she leisurely hopped down the stairs to the kitchen, unexcitedly brushing her hip-length titian red hair from her shoulders and tucking a unruly lock of it behind her ear, only to gasp at who was waiting there for her. It was Tomaso. Her mother expressed her rapture about the unexpected guest quite unashamedly, offered him fruit and wine repeatedly as he stood there and thankfully declined the goods, repeatedly, and tried to engage him in a conversation, which he, in a friendly manner, also refused. Tomaso looked tired, the deep circles under his eyes were dark blue, his hand was slightly shaking but his countenance was full of whim and his eyes lighted up as soon as he saw Francesca. “You must come with me signorina. I have been working on your painting all night and now realised we have to plan a lot more meetings to get it finished. We have to start today.” The young woman found herself smitten by surprise and took only a moment to consider. “You hear it mother,” she looked at the elder woman, took a ripe peach from the wooden bowl in front of her, bit into the luscious fruit, shrugged and mumbled: “If the master insists that I come with him, then I have no other choice!”

He had taken her hand and not let go of it until they arrived at the atelier. “But my dress,“ she said worriedly as he dragged her along behind him and shoved her into the spacious studio, “and my hair! Nothing´s as it´s supposed to be!” The handsome painter didn´t answer but scampered through the room, searching for different pots of paint, numerous brushes, stumbled over books and knocked over easels, but with a maniacal grin on his face that almost frightened her. Tomaso hummed a funny little melody and with a loud thump, he threw all gathered items on the rough, wide wooden table in the middle of the room, then he looked at her and his face suddenly darkened. He sighed with desperation and let his shoulders fall; he was a completely different man within a second. “Please see for yourself Francesca.” He took her hand, guided her through his atelier and she couldn´t believe what she was seeing: at least fifteen portraits of her, drawn with simple black coal or vibrant colour, sketched or fully painted, her face and body from different angles and in different settings. She was mesmerized; not only by how beautiful the young man obviously thought she was, a fact that wasn´t quite comprehensible to her, but also by how much time he must have spent doing all of this artwork. She looked around with an opened mouth while the painter watched her closely. “I have not slept a single minute,“ he started breathlessly and let go of her hand, “I have tried with all my power to bring you to the canvas but I couldn´t. My talent failed me. The more I painted, the worse it got. Not one of these can even remotely match your beauty.”

Tomaso fell on his knees before her and ran his fingers through his hair in a desperate gesture. “It is like I know your face, its image is burned in my mind but every time I believe I am able to draw it, the result is only a pale shadow of reality.” Shivering, he held on to the folds of her dress and when he looked up to her, his face such a display of disheartenment, she could not hold back from caressing softly over his wavy hair. “I don´t know what to say, signore… what can I do to alleviate your misery?” His head dropped on his chest. “Nothing…” he exhaled, then glanced at her again, “nothing else than promising me to stay here with me until I can produce a painting that is worthy of your gleaming beauteousness.”

The hours went by, torturously slow, as she sat where he had also put her to sit the day before. She didn´t dare to move or even breathe too deeply and passed her time observing him swirling his brush on the smooth surface of the canvas. The evening air was heavy with the sweet scent of white lilies that grew in front of his houses entrance and only bloomed at night and they, together with the sinking sun, announced the imminent nightfall. “Tomaso, please, you´ve been working on this painting all day and I´m getting tired. I believe both of us are in need of some rest.” Surprised, he looked at her as if she had just said something completely beyond his understanding and let his brush sink down, then he nodded. “You are right, of course…” and he sounded a bit disappointed, “we have achieved a lot today.” Francesca stretched her sore limbs, yawning very unladylike and Tomaso laughed at the funny sound. “I bet your whole body hurts terribly after I forced you to sit like that the whole day, am I right?” In a glass bowl filled with water and lemon wedges he thoroughly washed his hands and the brushes he had used, then he wiped his fingers on his white linen shirt. The subtle scent of the citrous fruit mixed lovely with the fragrance of the lilies that wafted through the air. “I think great parts of it went numb about three hours ago,” she sniggered, rubbing her thighs to stimulate their circulation, “I feel stiff and strained.” What she didn´t tell him was how she relished his attention when each of his looks grazed her curves, when he lovingly measured her body with every glance he gave her. He didn´t really need to look at her to paint her, it seemed he only did it to recall her, inch by inch, like her skin was a long-known path he had travelled on many times. There was something about him and his gestures that felt so intimate and known to her; and she reckoned he felt the same about her.

Slowly, she ascended from her seat to take a few steps but suddenly her muscles yielded and in the blink of an eyes, she was on the edge of stumbling. Tomas hurried to catch her and the fact that she didn´t fall didn´t deter him from taking her into his arms and holding her tightly. Both breathed heavily and trembled in this moment of unexpected closeness. “Look what I did to you,” he smiled softly and his eyes rested on her quivering lips for a moment, “you almost fell to my feet. Though I´m afraid it was neither my good looks nor my talent that caused your fall.” His words didn´t miss the mark and she returned his smile, anticipating and hoping he would dare what she didn´t.

It had only been a question of time until happened what was about to happen, with the sparks constantly flying between them. The painter pulled her closer and placed his lips on hers, gently, and she put up no resistance as his tongue glided past them. Their mouths melted into each other as if they were supposed to, as if they had met their ultimate goal. Both felt overwhelmed by the joy this embrace brought and pressed into each other´s bodies. Softness soon became urgency, hands discovered, tongues battled and breathy moans mixed with the slowly cooling evening air.

Tomaso sank to the floor with her still in his arms, his mouth hungrily adhering to her long, white neck and Francesca sighed loudly as she felt his teeth giving a soft bite. Their hands were quick with removing each other´s clothing and soon they lay naked on the sun-warmed stone floor together, embracing and kissing in fervent passion. Legs entangled, they let their hands roam the other´s body, eagerly tracing every curve and every dell. Tomaso´s hand ran over her collarbone, slightly edging the fullness of her breast until his soft fingertips circled her hardened nipples, feathery, like his brush had touched the canvas before. Soft moans she sighed into his ear as he let his tongue run down her nape and eventually find her rosy peaks. Unexpected was the sensation when after his gentle touches he suddenly turned her on her back roughly, placed himself between her wide spread legs, cupped her breasts and began to suckle them, harder and greedier now. In ecstasy, the young woman arched up her body against his and played with his soft hair as his mouth was still busy on her hard little pebbles. Like a big, hot arrow that urged towards its aim, his hard, pulsing cock pushed against her slick vulva first and on her thigh then, and as much as she wanted to have him inside her, even more she savoured the sensations his passionate, down-travelling mouth promised. When the painter´s tongue met her lower set of lips, parting them gently and softly tipping her erect and wet clit, she cried out in lust. He took her outcry as an invitation to continue and again, the wet tip of his tongue caressed and prodded the little erectile bud, until she grabbed a fistful of his hair and shoved him, quite harshly, between her thighs; another signal for him that he was on the right way. Determined he clasped her hips and started with forceful licks and hard sucking now, her agonized whimpering spurring him on to go even harder and even faster. Before Francesca reached her climax, he stopped and he knew very well that this would frustrate her. He looked up with glazed lips, on this woman he had come to adore so much in such little time and she lay there, breathing deeply and moaning in delight, her underarm covering her beautiful face. Feeling that he was watching her, she removed her arm and looked down on him, giving a faint smile but still, the fire in her eyes burned, like it did in his. Not wanting to waste another moment, she sat up and directed him to lay on his back. Perching over him, Francesca kissed him deeply once more before she placed a line of kisses over his chest and abdomen. The size of his hard cock surprised her, but its girth fitted perfectly into her palm as well as his darkened round tip glided perfectly into her wet mouth. Her appetite knew no bounds, for neither the man nor his cock, and so she sucked and licked the soft head and the hard length while her hand softly cupped the balls and her fingers played with their wrinkling skin.

His deep, low growls aroused her even more, but now, she felt, it was time to feel him fill her, finally.

With a fluent motion, she moved up, straddled his lap and guided the glistening tip to her entrance. She lowered on him very slowly, to feel and enjoy every inch and at the moment he was in her completely, they moaned aloud in unison. As she started to rock her hips he took her hands to stabilize her and they felt so sincerely connected and so deeply bound she forgot about the painting, her parents and all the mores she felt plagued with and he forgot about all those other women he had ever had and wanted. Once more, she bowed down to kiss him and he took the opportunity to change their position. They were facing each other now and once his next kiss had ended, he spoke to her under his breath: “Turn around amore, let me embrace you fully.” She had no reason to not comply and as she lay there, his long, slender arm around her body pulling her as near as possible, his soft sighs close to her ear, she felt him reach down and within a second, he was in her from behind and stretched her again with his thickness. It was the feeling of warmth and of being unconditionally loved that made this embrace so wonderful and the sudden connection between them even outweighed the raging desire for each other. He thrust deep and constantly while his hand slipped between her legs to search her erogenous little spot again, and when he did, he caressed softly without ceasing, well aware that this would unmistakably bring her to the edge. They reached their fulfilment in quick succession, shaking, writhing and screaming out in their release. Tomaso´s heart throbbed loud against Francesca´s back ad he in return, felt hers on his hands as he held her.

Relaxed and contended, he lay on his back and she on his chest, enjoying a quiet moment of bliss. “Not for the life of me can I remember where we could have met before…” he suddenly said contemplatively while he stroked her back, “though I feel safe to say we did.” Pausing, he looked at her flushed face lovingly and wrapped his arms around her heated body. “Maybe we haven`t in this life…” she smiled softly, but she felt sincere about it. Rebirth or reincarnation was something she truly believed in, as well as souls who found each other again in their next life if they had loved each other in the one before. “Maybe we were destined to meet again because our love was cursed our condemned in our past life?” This idea of star-crossed lovers who were given another chance by destiny warmed Tomaso´s heart. “If this is so, amore, then promise me we won´t waste this opportunity. Be mine in this life. Stay with, live with me and become my wife.”

The painter broke from her, leaving her astounded by his words, stood up and went to the other side of the room, returning with something that looked like a little gemmed casket in his hands.

“I want you to have this.” He sat down beside her, legs crossed, put the box on the ground, took a beautiful necklace out and solemnly placed it in her hands. “It belonged to my mother, it is of pure gold, the lavaliere is a ruby, bordered by a wreath of gold and little black pearls. Take it as my promise to be yours - eternally.” The beauty of the trinket made her gasp, and as she gestured him to put it around her neck, she only sighed, tonelessly: “Yes, I will be yours as you are mine. Forever.”

They kissed, as gently as the first time, and the young woman fell into his embrace again. “It is dark outside already, I have to leave you now. But come to my family’s house, tomorrow at noon and we will go to Santa Trinita church. It is my family´s chapel and the monsignore knows me since I was born. He will gladly make us wife and husband there, like he did it with my parents.”

Sleep was nothing Tomaso seemed to need this night. The memories of the last hours refreshed both his mind and body and though just a day ago he had deemed himself to be an eternal bachelor, he could hardly wait for being married to his Francesca. Humming a sweet little melody, he approached the Barbarigio home at smart pace, inspired by the idea of seeing his soon-to-be wife, filled with joy and excitement. The house seemed awfully quiet when he knocked on the door, once, twice. Nothing like he expected a home full of people who were celebrating an upcoming wedding to sound. He knocked once more, with more vehemence, until finally, signora Barbarigio opened the door, dressed in a black dress, her hair covered with a black veil, her eyes reddened from crying it seemed. “Oh Tomaso,” her voice broke and tears started falling down her full cheeks, “come in. It is so terrible. Thank you for coming by and offering your condolences.”

The young man didn´t understand. The big woman sobbed and didn´t stop when he touched her shoulder gently to find out more. “Signora Barbarigio, what happened? Did someone die?”

“You don´t know?” she suddenly looked up to him in surprise and her lower lips still shook from crying. “Francesca! My dear daughter Francesca died!” Her outcry tore through his heart like a dagger and filled his whole body with a searing, overwhelming pain. Tomaso held onto the elder woman or else he would have collapsed. “She was on her way home from your atelier when someone attacked her. The men of the city ward said they must have wanted something very valuable she carried and stabbed her for getting it. However, she left the house without anything valuable on her! You saw that, didn´t you!” The sudden awareness hit Tomas with a hard, cold slap as the woman forced him into her tight embrace and wetted his chest with more tears. The necklace. The bandits must have been after the necklace he gave her. It was his fault she was dead. His alone. “I am sorry for your loss signora,” he stated in a cold tone, “but I must leave now.” He rashly stumbled out of the house, into the white, blinding daylight.

He strayed the city for the rest of the day, and the night, restless and directionless, numb and blind to all people, events and impressions that surrounded him. Close to sunrise, he came back home and eventually surrendered to the pain that he had tried to cut out. Tomaso cried and screamed out all the anger and desperation, smashed easels and pots and glasses until he finally, after many hours, exhaustedly sunk down on his knees in front of Francesca´s painting, a crying, shivering mess of a man. “I loved you and doomed you, my Francesca! What a cruel joke destiny plays on me!” The longer he looked at her in the painting, the stronger grew his decision to stop his breakdown and to honour his one true love and with all the strength he had left in him, Tomaso finished the painting very same night. When he was done, he burned all of his other paintings of all his other customers, even landscapes or still lives, for none of them could ever bring him joy again as this one painting of her, his beloved wife, could.

Many years had passed before the painter Tomaso Guglielmo died and until his day of death, he refused to pick up the brush and paint again. On his deathbed, when the priest had come to administer the last sacrament, Tomaso confessed that after all the pain and guilt the death of his beloved had brought over him, he would die a happy man. He pointed his trembling fingers at her painting beside his bed, smiled placidly, and with his last breath he said: “Now my soul can finally leave this wretched body and go find hers in another life.” Then he painter closed his eyes forever.

The painting was sold at a high price as his one masterpiece. It is known as The Florentine Woman.


End file.
